


Just us all on our own

by hellcsweetie



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: 3x08, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellcsweetie/pseuds/hellcsweetie
Summary: After Stephen Huntley gets arrested, Donna invites Harvey for drinks.
Relationships: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Just us all on our own

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place at the end of 3x08.
> 
> Title from "Shutters", by Hayden Calnin (it's also the song that plays during this scene :) )

“Do you wanna get drinks?” Donna calls out to him, loud enough so he’ll hear her over the breeze and the distance between them. He stops, looks over his shoulder questioningly.

“It’s been a hell of a week,” she argues and he’s forced to agree. 

“And you want to end it with me?” Harvey asks, a smirk already in place. 

“I don’t really have anything better going on,” she shrugs one shoulder casually, their bantering comfortable.

“Alright,” he nods, “Let’s get drinks.”

She waits for him by the door and they both get inside the car together.

“Where are we going?” he glances at her.

“I was thinking Paddy’s,” she offers, an unusual glint in her eyes. Harvey isn’t entirely sure what’s going on; it’s been a weird night, between getting a member of his own firm arrested, reconciling with Cameron, the weird place he’s in with Jessica and now Donna’s invitation to go back to a pub they frequented when they worked at the DA’s. But he’s not about to cross her, not tonight. 

“Ray, 519 2nd Ave,” he grins and tells his driver, and they start moving. 

Both Donna and Harvey stare out their respective window. There’s a nervous energy flowing in the space between them on the backseat. He’s pretty sure they’re both aware that whatever happened this week wasn’t strictly what happened, but he’s equally sure none of them will bring it up explicitly. 

He made a commitment to Donna the day he told her he’d put _them_ out of his mind. And recent experience with Zoe and Scottie shows him he’s right to do it, too. What he has with Donna is special because it’s not fickle and subject to whims. It’s solid and perennial and he needs it to be able to function. 

As to Donna... He doesn't know what exactly is going on with her. He still hasn’t been able to make sense of their recent conversations about Stephen, and she asked him point blank if he’d punched him because of her and Harvey was at least partially confident she’d wanted him to say “no”. Donna’s usually the one who makes things clearer for him, and her behavior lately has been anything _but_ clear. 

Like he said the other day, he doesn’t want to make this a thing, not on his own. _More_ is a vast infinity beyond the precipice they’re standing at and he refuses to step off it unless she were to lead the way. But he has the distinct feeling that, if they ever did, she’d want him to meet her halfway, and he just can’t. The vastness is overwhelming and scary and he’d much rather stay on solid ground.

Ray pulls up in front of the pub, retrieving him from his musings. He follows Donna out the car and tells Ray to go home.

The atmosphere inside the bar is familiar and foreign at the same time. The place looks exactly the same, dark, loud, stuffed with patrons and beer bottles and rock band posters. Donna fares okay in her smart black jumpsuit, but Harvey is clearly out of sorts with his three-piece suit and his coiffed hair and the money and the status. The people around them are casual and carefree and he remembers when that was them, tie loosened and jackets discarded after a long day, the desire to unwind coursing through their bodies. 

Harvey is suddenly fervently nostalgic for those days, days in which Donna and him had a new rhythm, something that still excited them and sparked between their fingers as they touched and flirted. 

“Okay, we need to set ground rules,” Donna half-screams over the music, leaning against the bar. Harvey just nods. “We start off with a shot, alternate rounds and don’t mention that little shit all night.”

He knows, objectively, that Donna’s pissed at Stephen Huntley, and he knows what her ire is capable of. But he was so focused on his own anger and how it felt hot and thick in his veins that her outburst surprises him a little. 

“You sure you wanna get drunk tonight?” he tries, his last shred of reservation being laid bare. 

She blinks once, her face unreadable, before she nods, “Yeah, Harvey, I’m sure.”

“Alright,” he nods once and it’s sealed. He flags down the bartender, orders them tequila and just accepts the idea that tonight, he’s not the one calling the shots. 

The place is packed, barely any room to move around even though it’s a Wednesday. He can only vaguely hear the classic rock blasting through the speakers and is quick to shed his jacket and roll up his sleeves. There are no tables available, so they stay by the bar, nursing their drinks. It’s awkward at first, too much said and even more unsaid between them the past days and he doesn’t know how to bounce back from that. 

He forces his brain to conjure up something, a memory about the place, and asks her if she remembers that time Margaret the court reporter got drunk and danced on a bar stool. She does, and she laughs, and she probably recognizes the offering for what it is because she picks up the thread and unravels a whole conversation and they barely notice that their drinks get swallowed remarkably quickly. 

Into the third round a tiny bistro table clears up in the corner. She grabs his wrist and leads them there and he’s a tiny little bit nervous, the atmosphere and _her_ leaving him on edge. They’re pressed up together, his right elbow on the table and his back against the wall, her in front of him in various stages of closeness as she sways to accommodate the crowd behind her. 

Despite his nerves, it’s easy, between the booze and the exhaustion and the noise, to fall back to that time. Conversation flows freely, a wide range of topics covered from Cameron’s mustache to Tracy Robbins’ affair to his brother’s batting record and how it was much lower than his. Harvey likes easy, and he likes that it’s with her. 

She looks beautiful in the dim light, her hair slightly more mussed than usual from how she’s been flipping it this way and that, pulling it onto one side, probably from the heat. He’s ditched his tie and the first two buttons of his shirt, can feel the fabric clinging to his back. She meant it when she said she wanted to get drunk, and he feels the consequence of his decision to follow her buzzing under his skin. His stomach is more fluttery, his brain is slightly fuzzy, he finds he laughs a little louder and leans a little closer into her when they speak.

It's his turn to fetch drinks and he uses the opportunity to try to straighten himself out. He's still not entirely clear on where tonight is headed, the room for disaster expanding before him with each refill. But the biggest problem is, he is no longer sure what "disaster" means right now.

When he reaches their table, Donna has their things hanging from her arms, a slightly anxious look about her. A pang of disappointment courses through him, though it's so ridiculous he refuses to properly acknowledge it.

"The band's playing upstairs, I thought we could go check it out," she tells him, close to his ear. Relief catches him unprepared and he stutters a little. "Yeah, okay, sure." They head up, not out, and his heartbeat speeds up a little with each step up the stairs.

The upper level is inconceivably more crowded, bodies clashing together. Harvey grips their drinks tighter and follows Donna as she snakes through the people and finds them a clearing. The band is playing a surprisingly decent cover of Take Me Out and he instantly misses the Metallica from downstairs, but Donna is already nodding in time with the music. She likes indie rock, he remembers suddenly. He swallows his contempt and trades her one of the glasses for his jacket. They sip in silence, the room aroud them stuffy and heavy with heat. The alcohol excess is visible here; if downstairs people were inebriated, up here they are positively drunk, an aura of celebration of life and youth. Harvey would ordinarily roll his eyes at the foolishness but tonight it's getting to him a little. 

Donna wants shots and he knows he should put an end to this, get her on a cab and send her home. He can certainly feel his brain protesting the hangover he already knows he'll sport tomorrow. But she's looking at him like a dare and he suddenly wants to prove he can handle her. They flip their glasses, wincing as the liquid burns a path down their throat. Donna giggles, shakes her head at them, then gathers her hair up and twists it into a bun. She doesn't wear her hair up often and he likes it, likes taking a minute or two off every day to watch her tresses move down her back. But here and now, as she twists her head to glance behind her at the band, he enjoys being able to see the elegant column of her neck, the muscle moving beneath her skin. He has a sudden urge to skim his fingers down her skin, which he promptly swallows.

Someone passes by them and Donna stumbles, out of balance. Harvey grips her forearm to steady her. "Yeah, I'm getting us some water."

She rolls her eyes at him, but follows his lead as he hydrates, willing the small bottle to win the fight against the endless rounds of drinks and make him sober again. Obviously it doesn't work; he still feels light-headed as she pushes him gently towards the dancefloor.

The band has an okay selection; Donna knows most songs, he recognizes one or two. He can tell she has fully let go from the way her hips sway heavily to whatever beat is playing, the way she lifts her arms and points to the ceiling as she sings along, the way she bites her bottom lip and smiles as they play a rift she likes. He's seen her like this before, but it's unusual, now more than ever. They used to go out like this every other week, enjoy early nights - or very late nights, when they were too keyed up by work to go home and sleep - to go to a bar and chat. Some times it would be just that, some times there would be some dancing. Some times he'd think about kissing her and dismiss the thought as insane. 

She pokes him playfully and he laughs, begrudgingly swaying along with her, letting her have her fun. The lights from the stage spin haphazardly around the room and when they shine upon them, he can see her eyes sparkling fiercely. Donna is truly one of a kind. He knows tonight is an escape of sorts, a way to forget all the shit they went through these past weeks and to pretend like everything is back to how it used to be at the DA's. But he can't help but admire her strength, her vitality and vigor, the way she's here, dancing like the world's gonna end tomorrow, while others might have preferred to wallow in bed.

He feels a surge of affection, a sharp heat that sears through his chest. His mouth goes dry and he feels a lump in his throat he has trouble swallowing. Her skin glistens with sweat as her hair tumbles down from her bun and around her shoulders. 

"Come on, it's my round," she coaxes him, leaning closer, and he almost misses her words, senses in complete overdrive. She stalks off to the bar and by the time he reaches her she's already ordered new shots. He throws her a pointed stare but she just smirks. She knows what she's doing; the problem is he doesn't.

She slides a glass towards him, grinning wickedly at him from the rim of her own. "Okay, after this I'm cutting us off," he warns, only half joking. She rolls her eyes, "Fine, spoilsport." He should be bothered by her quip but the way her lips are curled up at one side is distracting.

They take their shots and it's like one of those cosmic moments.

The minute they set down their glasses someone brushes past her again, essentially shoving her into him. He stumbles back into the counter and she pushes up against him, body cushioned by his. Her face is suddenly very, very close to his, their breathing speeds up and he no longer knows what to do with his hands, lets them hover awkwardly at their sides. The people squeezing by behind her manage to get through but the moment between them stretches, suspends everything around them. 

She's looking straight into his eyes, gaze inexplicably clear and focused, as if she hadn't just had two shots on top of all the other stuff they drank. She doesn't immediately step away and he doesn't know how to react, if he even should react. 

Then she blinks and the moment breaks and she steps back. He's about to swallow and get his breathing back to normal when she grabs his wrist and yanks him through the crowd. He has no idea where they're going or why until she makes a sharp right, weaves past a few groups of people towards a patch of wall on what seems like the left end of the bar, a few feet away from where waiters are speeding through with beer mugs and plates. He has absolutely no time to react before she leans against the wall and pulls him flush against her, literally crashing their bodies together. Her lips press against his, demanding and careless. 

He should stop this. He should step away, tell her they're drunk and they shouldn't make any decisions in this state. The idea of a drunk hookup with her disgusts and unsettles him, but his body doesn't seem to mind because he's unwittingly kissing her back.

She doesn't wait long before sucking his upper lip between hers, nudging his mouth open. He tastes her hot breath in his mouth and it spurs him on, drives a hand to brace on the wall beside her. Her fingers curl against his jaw and she darts her tongue out cheekily, swiping it along his lip and a sigh escapes him as he opens his mouth further, meeting her tongue. 

They melt together, the years between the last time they did this and now surrounding them, keeping them close together. She laps at him, runs her tongue against his teeth, the roof of his mouth. He was half out of it by the alcohol already, but she's a whole new level of intoxication.

Donna slings an arm around his neck, angles his head and kisses him deeper. His free hand flies to her waist, digs its fingers into her skin. He leans into her, presses the length of his body against hers, and she's warm and pliant and he thinks very soon he won't be able to do this anymore without making her effect on him very obvious. 

They part for air and she moves to his neck, leaving a trail of sloppy, wet kisses across his jaw and down to his pulse point. She mixes tongue and teeth and he lets out a moan that gets swallowed by the muffled noise around them but that she can probably feel on his throat. His hand slides up and down her side, from her hip to the side of her breast.

Her hands venture down his back, palms pressing him to her as she lets out a heavy breath next to his ear, and he remembers she once told him, many moons ago, she's the horny kind of drunk. The memory ignites a spark that runs right down his spine and pools in his belly. He wraps an arm around her lower back and pulls her in, reclaiming her mouth.

She slants her hips against his and yeah, it's _definitely_ obvious now. She lets out a whimper of her own as he ravages her neck, trying not to leave any marks as he nips and sucks. He feels a new wave of heat rush south as she hooks a leg around his waist, rubbing her calf up and down his thigh. 

He's equal parts relieved and frustrated that she's wearing a jumpsuit, because if she had a skirt on he'd probably fuck her right here, right now, in a dark spot in the corner of a very crowded dancefloor. 

She, on the other hand, finds a way to his skin, pulling his shirt from the confines of his pants and raking her nails up his back. A hand goes up to the back of his neck and tangles in his hair, pulling the short strands there just forcefully enough to grant her extra access to his throat. The hand that's still beneath his shirt moves to his front, skimming up his abs. His muscles flutter beneath her touch and they're both panting in earnest, mouths alternating between tangling together and stopping just shy of one another, fighting for air. 

She's clinging to him in a way she never had before; in a way he isn't sure _anyone_ ever had before. He feels his fingers tingling and his chest tight and it has less to do with the alcohol and their activities than he is comfortable admitting. 

He's sucking on her earlobe, hands locked around her waist holding her as close as humanly possible. Her fingers are wrapped around his hair, having long bested the effects of his hair gel. He catches the earlobe between his teeth and pulls gently and Donna's breath stutters. "Harvey," she moans, and he hears it clear as day even through the noise. 

Her palm snakes down between them and cups his erection through his pants, rubs him with enough pressure that he completely abandons his ministrations in favor of trying to make sure he doesn't die from the dizziness of her and the lack of air. "Donna," he pants, resting his forehead against her shoulder, and he thinks he can see her smirk out of the corner of his eye. She rubs him again and it's completely in spite of any active will or self-control that he thrusts into her, once, then again when she repeats the motion.

The act hits him like a ton of bricks and he suddenly regains his clarity like someone just shot him with an EpiPen. He pulls his head back to look at her and his alarm must be clear in his face because she stops moving, lips setting into a line after a moment.

"Donna, we're drunk," is what he decides to go with because he couldn't make her believe he doesn't want this even if he tried. His voice is rough and he sees her clear her throat, hand conspicuously retreating from his crotch. He feels slightly mortified as he becomes glaringly aware of their situation, all the places they're touching and how her hair is even messier and her lips are plump and red and how he'll need to hold his jacket in front of him when they finally do part.

"I just don't want us to make any rash decisions here," he amends, desperate not to make things worse. He's suddenly terrified that she'll feel rejected because God knows there is literally nothing he'd like more than to take her home right now and not care about tomorrow, but he does care. In his heart, through the fog of alcohol and desire, he cares infinitely more about tomorrow, about them being okay tomorrow and forever after, than he cares about getting off right now.

She nods and, if she's at all disappointed, it doesn't show. "You're right," she tells him and enjoys the new space between them to take a deep breath, straighten her clothes and her hair. He follows her lead, watching her wearily as he tucks his shirt back into his pants.

When her eyes meet his again, their gazes lock for a moment, him trying to gauge her reaction, eager for any cues on what to do. "We're okay, Harvey," she says, and though she sounds contrite, a little embarassed maybe, she also sounds sincere. He nods, swallowing and clinging desperately onto the reassurance her words bring.

They mutually and silently agree then that it's probably time to go. He follows her sheepishly through the crowd and down the stairs and thanks all heavens and gods that there is no line at the cashier. In a second they're outside and the air is much cooler than it was when they left the office. He puts his jacket back on and she gingerly crosses her arms and it's almost like they weren't dry humping against a wall in a dark pub a mere five minutes ago. 

Donna glances at him, then down the street. He isn't totally convinced they're okay, can feel the awkwardness palpable between them and damn, he should have shut the whole thing down when he had the chance. He manages to flag her a cab and buries his hands in his pockets as the car pulls over.

"Okay then, I'll see you tomorrow," he says absolutely lamely, opening the door for her. Donna steps towards the cab, but stops short of entering and turns to him.

"I had fun," she says simply, almost quietly, and gives him a tiny smile. Her fingers catch his lapels and she pulls on them briskly, straightening the fabric and brushing off some imaginary lint. It's very _them_ , an act that's achingly familiar from all the other thousands of times she's done it before. He recognizes her intention, nods, cradles it in his chest. They're okay, they'll be able to move past this. It was just a night of reckless fun but they managed to get a grip before anything went too far. It'll become another notch on their long history, so much bigger and more complex and more precious than a hookup or a fling. He's infinitely grateful for her.

"Text me when you get home," he says and she nods and gets into the car, and he watches as it drives off into the night, puffing his cheeks out and trying not to notice that he can still taste her on his tongue.


End file.
